


What A Triple Lutz Can Do

by candy_and_writing



Series: What A Triple Lutz Can Do [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Dom/sub, Kidnapping, Light Bondage, Masturbation, More to be added as the story continues - Freeform, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Non-Consensual Touching, Oral Sex, Pet Names, Pet Names—Kitten, Polyamory, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Stalking, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:22:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24262765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candy_and_writing/pseuds/candy_and_writing
Summary: Steve and Bucky have found each other again, after everything they've been through. When Steve meets you at the Winter Olympics, he decides you're the perfect little doll for their plan.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Reader
Series: What A Triple Lutz Can Do [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1751401
Comments: 10
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is loosely based off @henchry post about Chris Evans dating an ice skater on Tumblr. I read it and instantly had this idea, I’ve just never posted it. I think I unintentionally used bunny by @buckybarney (also on Tumblr) as inspiration in making final edits. They also helped me figure out how to make this moodboard, so thank you! Please let me know if you enjoyed this, I had a lot of fun writing this!
> 
> Feel free to follow me on Tumblr under @candy-and-writing !

Before the war, before Bucky had fallen off the train and Steve crashed into the ice, before the Avengers and before and the world made Steve Rogers harder—colder—he liked to call himself a hopeless romantic. He wanted to meet eyes with someone across a diner and feel the fireworks explode in his chest. He wanted to buy a girl flowers, he wanted to walk down the streets of Brooklyn while it was snowing with her hand warming his. He wanted to buy his girl a ring, he wanted to get married, have a family.

He thought he would get that with Peggy, but he missed his chance. When he woke up in another century, he thought for sure he would never get his happily ever after. The women today were so. . . _brash_. A lady was supposed to be kind, polite, and dutiful. He understood that times were different, but that shouldn't excuse the ungrateful attitudes.

Then he found Bucky again, and the crazy world he had been forced into didn't seem so hopeless anymore. 

Tony had received a call from the International Olympics Committee, formally inviting the Avengers to the Winter Olympics. They were in Italy this year, Milan and Cortina. It was the first Olympic Games to be held in two cities, according to Bruce.

The committee had asked Steve to conduct the medal presentations for ice skating and hockey. They wanted Thor to carry the torch for the opening ceremony, but he was off-world and unavailable.

So here Steve was, sitting in the Mediolanum Forum venue next to Sam so he could watch the ice skating events. He figured if he was going to be giving the winners their medals, he should see why they won.

The committee had given the team access to front row seating, and that's where he was when you came out.

You were the third skater, and the first American representative, to take the ice. Your hair was pulled into a braided braid low on the side of your head with a blue flower pinned above the bun. The little dress you wore was modest—the same shade of blue that matched your flower and a sleeveless neckline that connected to a sheer fabric for sleeves and a higher neck, the little flowy skirt stopping in the middle of your thigh. Lines of little jewels dipped along your bust, beads varying in size. You had makeup on, like all the previous girls, but yours was light and glittery—save for the ruby red lipstick, but even that looked classical on you. It reminded Steve of the makeup women would wear back in the thirties.

He was so focused on you that Sam had to elbow him in the ribs to get his attention. He shut his jaw then, listening to the way your name rolled off the commentator's tongue, the syllables lining and matching each other perfectly.

You were twenty-one, and this was your first time competing in the Olympics. You've competed in other national and international tournaments, and you've done good in them if he was understanding correctly. It made an odd sense of pride swell in his chest. You were skating to Disney's _Beauty and the Beast._

You moved to the middle of the rink as the announcer informed the stadium who conducted and performed your piece. You had four quads set in your routine, two in the first half and two in the second. It got quiet in the arena as you raised your arm over your head and arched your back like a ballerina. Steve counted five seconds before the music started and you spun around slowly. You started to move your body and—

Oh. _Oh._

Steve was sure his jaw had dropped to the floor. The way you moved was bewitching, beautifully languid yet articulate. It was like the music _moved_ through you, coursing through your veins as you made it entirely your own, bringing something so utterly delicate and ethereal out of the melody. You made it show in your body, in your movements.

The first of your quads were coming up, something called a quadruple lutz. Steve didn't know what it was, but when you threw your leg back and jumped, spinning in the air before landing and the crowd erupted into applause, he figured you did it correctly.

Your feet glided across the ice as you skated backward, your muscles tensing—you were preparing for your next quad. You kicked your leg back and used it as momentum to jump, spinning and landing what the commentator called a quadruple flip. The crowd cheered again.

Your expression—the raw focus and determination hiding behind your eyes—was gorgeous. Your crimson lips were parted slightly, eyelids hooded as you brought your head up. The delicate expression, the way your shoulders tensed as you jumped and spun in the air once, twice, three times before you landed gracefully on your toes had the breath leaving his lungs.

It was art. _You_ were a work of art. So beautiful he wanted to lock you behind a glass cage and put you on display. You commanded the ice as if you controlled it, with such a degree of intricacy that Steve thought if you jumped high enough or spun fast enough you would grow wings and fly away.

You were in your element. You kicked your foot back before bringing it forward, using it to start your jump. You spun in the air and landed on one foot, your other leg spread out and leading the twirl you used to end the jump. The stadium cheered, Sam said something about a triple axel.

Steve wished the song lasted forever, wished he could watch you forever, but soon there was a flute trilling and you slowed, circling back to the center of the rink and just like that—your performance was over. The crowd exploded into cheers, throwing flowers, stuffed toys, anything they had in their pockets.

You broke into a smile, your plump lips parting and bringing out your dimples. Steve swooned as you waved to the crowd, bending to pick up a rose. Your gaze met his, and he swore he felt fireworks erupt in his chest. You smiled at him before skating off the ice, hugging a man sporting a red lightweight jacket with the USA logo embroidered on the sleeve, his dark hair slicked back. Steve watched as you smiled at him, not missing the way he stared at your ass as you turned away.

Then, suddenly, you were in first place. Your eyes went wide and you jumped up, hugging the man in the red jacket—Steve assumed he was your coach. He heard your squeal above the rest of the cheers.

Even from where he was sitting, your eyes were bright, brighter than your smile. Steve was proud of you, pride swelled in his chest as he watched you speak with a reporter. His eyes stayed glued to you as you shook hands with the reporter, your coach walking you to the locker rooms. He watched you until he couldn't anymore.

A strange desire pulled at his heart as he pulled his Stark Pad out, looking you in F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s database.

  


* * *

  


After watching your performance every other skater seemed dull, incomparable, to you. The judges must have thought so, too. You stayed in first place, winning the competition.

According to F.R.I.D.A.Y, you grew up in Chicago, but you moved to Manhattan for college. You got a new coach, Adrian Tucker, who was a gold and silver medalist back in the nineties. You're a junior at NYU, majoring in Art History. You have an Instagram, some sort of social media Peter had been trying to convince him to get, and Steve created an account immediately just to follow you. You had pictures of yourself, of friends, of the rink, even a pair of ballet shoes.

So you did ballet, good to know.

The award ceremony couldn't come soon enough. The idea of being closer to you sent butterflies fluttering through his stomach. Ever since he had gotten him back, Steve and Bucky have been talking about settling down—creating a life with a girl and starting a family. But they haven't found the right partner, but maybe. . . ?

When he stood in front of you, he swore he almost stopped breathing. You were _gorgeous._ Your hair had been taken out of the bun, cascading down your shoulders in loose waves. Your makeup was still done the same, but he noticed light freckles dotting along the bridge of your nose. Your eyes sparkled up at him—good God, you barely stood past his chest—your painted lips parted in a smile as you took him in. He placed the gold medal around your neck, congratulating you. You whispered a small, "thank you, Captain," and Steve felt a spark of electricity jolt down his groin.

Your voice was light, melodic, quiet. You were respectful, something he valued in people, in women. He could almost imagine you posed as the perfect housewife. With the perfect husband—or husbands—with the white picket fence, the kids. He could imagine your belly swollen, the little children running around calling you 'mama'. You were young, right at that age where women would start becoming wives and mothers back in his day. The thought only made his cock harder as he watched you on the platform, waving to the audience with the biggest smile on your face.

As he sat back down next to Sam, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He pulled up Bucky's contact and sent him a picture from your Instagram.

'I think I found her,' he typed.

  


* * *

  


Bucky remembered the first time he realized he was in love with Steve—he was sixteen. He had danced around with plenty of girls already but none of them ever really seemed to stick. He had saved up enough money to spend Steve's birthday at Coney Island, that was the day he made Steve ride the Cyclone, back when he was still skinny. He had bought Steve a hotdog, which a pelican attacked him over. Bucky was crying from laughter, face red and stomach aching, when he looked over at Steve. Something just clicked then.

The past couple of months, Steve and Bucky had been making plans to add a third partner into life. After all this time, fighting Nazis and being mind-controlled and saving the universe time and time again, they both agreed they deserved it—that they deserved a family. They had both been selfless for so long, was it so wrong to want someone to be selfless for them? To want someone soft that could share their love?

Steve and Bucky were great together—the love of each other's lives, in fact—but they shared an overwhelming need to dominate, to control. On and off the field. When they fucked they were ruthless, full of scraping nails and biting teeth. Fingertips that left bruises that lasted for days. They needed someone else, someone they could focus that control on, someone who could take them so gently and lovingly, a way they rarely took each other.

Then he got Steve's text. You were young, and it wasn't hard to find out almost everything he needed to know about you. Steve helped him use F.R.I.D.A.Y to figure out where you live—a small apartment that was close to your college campus. You could walk to class if the weather permitted it. It also wasn't too far from the ice rink you trained at. It was easy for Bucky to find a building across from your suite where they could watch you. You liked to keep your window open, let the sunlight in.

They took turns sitting on the roof of the neighboring building, looking through a pair of binoculars. They would watch you for hours—watch you do simple things like reading. That was Bucky's favorite, the way your lips moved ever so slightly as you read the words on the page. You enjoyed reading horror novels—Steven King, Mary Downing Hahn, an author named Chuck Palahnuik. A worn copy of Bram Stoker's _Dracula_ and Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein_ sat on your bookshelf. At first glance, Bucky never would have pegged you as a horror kind of girl, you were too sweet and too timid. As he continued to watch you through the cameras Steve had him install, though, he saw that you very much liked psychological thrillers. You would watch a show on YouTube about true crime and haunted locations, a couple of amateurs who didn't quite know what they were doing. They were funny, though. Steve and Bucky would watch you laugh as you stared at your phone, smiling to yourself.

You trained at a ballet studio in lower Manhattan, worked out at a gym a block away from that. They were quick to memorize your routine once they started. You'd wake up at five-thirty every morning and make yourself some breakfast. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday's you hit the gym and the studio; you'd go to whatever classes you had that day, grab a coffee at the campus cafe, then head to the skating rink for two hours. Two and a half hours max. You went home, studied, and then you were left to your own devices. Sometimes you read, sometimes you baked and God, Bucky almost couldn't stop drooling at the thought of tasting your cooking. You'd watch television in your small living room and be in bed no later than eleven o'clock every night to start your day again.

One Monday morning, Steve and had followed you to the gym. They'd been doing that the last few weeks. At first, Steve reasoned it was so they could watch over you, in case you got into some trouble. Some mornings they planned on running into you on the sidewalk, pretending it was an accident—there was a flower cart along your route you liked to stop and admire, sometimes buying a bouquet of daisies for your little bachelor pad—but the timing never seemed right. Steve was never wearing the right shirt, or Bucky's hair was always a mess from the wind.

You took a cab, which Steve followed a couple of cars behind on his motorcycle. The air was brisk, the first signs of spring coming into the city. Some of the trees had started growing their leaves again, vibrant greens against the grey winter sky. He parked his bike underneath a plotted tree that had just started to turn, the tips of the leaves a bright green as blossoms began to bloom, pastel pinks against vibrant greens with petals blowing in the wind. He bought a newspaper from a vendor a couple of stores down and sat on a nearby bench, catching up with the world as he counted down the minutes. You would be in there for an hour and fifteen minutes almost exactly.

Steve almost couldn't sit still. He was itching to get his hands on you, to feel you. He and Bucky have been watching you for a long time now, waiting for the right moment to get their hands on you. Steve was growing impatient.

At forty-five minutes, his eyes began to flick up at the building every few minutes. He knew it wasn't time yet, but there was always a chance you got done early.

At an hour, his gaze hovered just above the paper. _Ten more minutes,_ he told himself.

At an hour and twelve minutes, you emerged. Steve watched as you hugged your coat to your chest and began walking. The studio you danced at was only a block away, so you wouldn't have to be out in the cold for long. Still, Steve couldn't help but chastise you for not wearing something warmer. All you had on were a pair of thin leggings—that hugged your ass beautifully, he might add—and a compression tank top under your lightweight sweater.

Steve rushed to his bike, folding the newspaper in his hand and revving up the engine. He drove down the block, parking in front of a cafe across from the ballet studio. He watched you enter the studio and sat at a table, ordering a cup of coffee. He saw you through the floor-to-ceiling windows, your let stretched up over your head. He reached for his sketchbook and pencil, laying it out on the table before him.

The night of the Olympics, the first time after Steve had seen you, he stayed up all night drawing you. He found a video of your performance on the internet, watching it on repeat as he drew you in different positions. The first sketch he did was of you with your arm over your head, just before you started skating. He found he loved drawing the shape of your lips, so the next sketch was a portrait of your face. Your long lashes were hooded, eyes downcast and your lips parted slightly as the pencil scratched against the paper, your plump lips etched in charcoal. The expression Steve caught you in was oddly ethereal, the kind of innocence that Steve found absolutely breathtaking.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Steve sighed, pulling the device out of his jeans. Cursing, he reread the message Sam sent, looking back up across the street. You were still in front of the window, leg propped up on a bar with your upper body reaching for your foot. He sighed, closing his sketchbook as he stomped toward his bike.

  


* * *

  


Steve and Bucky trudged back into the Compound, exhausted and irritated. Not only have they been unable to see you for a week and a half, forced to watch you through the cameras hidden throughout your apartment, but the mission had been a complete bust. They had been sent away to Northern Peru, where Fury had given them intel about a group of HYDRA smugglers shipping illegal weapons into the country. Unfortunately, Steve and Bucky spent twelve days in a cramped, boiling building across from the target's warehouse and managed to find nothing before Fury called them back.

Steve was sweaty, Bucky hadn't taken a shower in a week, and they missed you. Bucky wanted to touch you, he wanted to kiss you until you were breathless. He watched you on his phone when he could, often opting to watch the camera feed than to sleep.

Once they were in their suite, Steve stripped his uniform off, leaving it in a heap on the floor to pick up later. Right now he just wanted to feel clean. He turned the shower on and peeled his boxers off as Bucky undressed, Steve stepping below the showerhead. The warm water felt nice against his taut muscles, his shoulders relaxing under the water pressure. He watched the dirt and grime from the mission get washed away, down the drain in muddy-grey color.

As he massaged shampoo through his hair, his thoughts wandered back to you, fingers itching to run against your skin. The way your lips always looked so soft, how utterly _delicious_ you would look with them wrapped around his cock. The sweet little noises you would make as he forced himself down your throat—you were so small, it wouldn't take much to make you choke on him.

Steve groaned as his fist wrapped around his length. Almost two weeks without imagining you on your knees, imagining your mouth on him and he was _oh so_ sensitive. He cursed, running his thumb over his slit. He pictured your tongue dragging against his girth, your wrecked expression as you struggled to take him deeper, as Bucky struggled to fit himself in behind you. He fisted himself faster, gasping out your name.

"Yeah, baby," he mumbled to himself. "Just like that. _Fuck_."

He could only imagine how beautiful you would look when you came. Your skin sweaty, hips bucking, your innocent little eyes rolling to the back of your head as you squealed. Oh, you were definitely a squealer. They would make you cum over and over and—

He bit back a moan as he came, hot white spurts coating his stomach as he slowed his movements, nerves on fire. He sighed, rinsing himself off before he turned the water off. He was still hard, he wasn't sure he'd be able to get himself off.

The tips of his fingers buzzed as he redressed himself and Bucky hopped in the shower. Steve didn't know if it was the stress of the mission or the adrenaline you gave him, but he couldn't wait anymore. He didn't have the _patience_ to wait anymore.

He was watching the camera feeds in your apartment when Bucky came out of the bathroom. All it took was one look from Steve—they already had it all planned out, they just had to put it into motion.

  


* * *

  


You struggled to unlock your door, twisting the key in the lock a few times, cursing as you pushed your shoulder against the door, stumbling as the door swung open. You managed to catch yourself before knocking over your vase of daisies, straightening as you waited for your world to stop spinning.

You knew it had been a bad idea when you agreed to go out tonight. You're such a lightweight and after just three shots and half a glass of wine, you're going to have a killer hangover in the morning. God, and it's _three a.m_. But Annie had begged you to come with them. You haven't hung out with her in so long, you were desperate to see her again. You just wished she hadn't dragged you out to a bar.

You dropped your handbag on your little dining room table, opening the refrigerator to pour yourself a glass of orange juice. You drank half the glass in a couple of gulps, letting out a sigh as you set the glass down. As you moved to pull your phone out of your purse, you heard the floorboards creak, like someone was taking a step.

You froze, looking down the hall. The boards in your bedroom creak like that when you step down on a certain spot, but you've been in the apartment long enough to learn where it is exactly and step around it.

As quietly as you could, you made your way down the hall, checking the bathroom. You've seen enough horror movies in your life to know never to close the shower curtain when you weren't using it, so with a quick glance you knew the room was empty.

Your bedroom was at the end of the hall, the door cracked open. You walked in, carefully looking around. Your closet door was open, the windows were closed, you turned and looked towards your dresser mirror and—

You saw the figure behind you before you could react. Your eyes went wide, their hand coming up to cover your mouth before you could muster a scream. Your hands flew up to the hand, legs kicking out as the intruder dragged you out of your bedroom. You screamed into the hand, thrashing as you felt a sharp prick in your neck.

"It's alright," they cooed. "Shhh, it's okay, doll. You're just gonna go to sleep for a little while, okay?"

You shook your head frantically, tears streaming down your face as you felt your body getting tired. You blinked furiously, trying to fight the sleepy feeling. Your muscles felt like dead weight, you stopped kicking your feet as your grip on the man's cold hand went slack.

"That's a good girl," he crooned. "Just relax, kitten. I'm not gonna hurt you."

Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth. Your vision blurred, and then everything went black.

  



	2. part ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the reader wakes up in a strange place, surrounded by men she thought were supposed to keep the world safe, not kidnap innocent people?

Your head throbbed in tight, short pains. A small whimper escaped your lips and you squeezed your eyes tight in an attempt to ease the pain. Your muscles felt heavy as you brought your hand to your head, running your fingers through your sweat-soaked hair. Your limbs felt fuzzy, hands and feet alive with pins and needles.

You stroked the quilt with your fingertips, petting your bedsheets as you sighed happily. They felt nice, soft and smooth, smelling like fresh rain and cedarwood. Your whole bed felt more comfortable than usual, firm and supportive in ways it hadn't before. You ran your nails across the sheets and clenched them into your fist. Something wasn't right. Your bed was never this soft.

The hammering in your head and the grogginess you felt didn't seem to matter as you forced your eyes open and sat up. The walls were a soft white, clean and freshly painted. This wasn't your apartment.

Looking around, you saw a dark mahogany dresser on the opposite wall of the bed, a matching wardrobe to the left of you, and an off-white armchair with dark wooden legs and a large, decorative floral pattern. There were two doors, both closed, and across from the armchair was an open threshold. The hardwood floors matched the dresser and the wardrobe, a fluffy antique white rug next to the bed and under the armchair.

The bedsheets were a grey tinted silk with a white pin-tuck comforter. You had been laying against four different pillows, two with the same decorative pin-tuck pattern and two in silk pillow sheets.

There were two nightstands on either side of the large bed, matching lamps lit on either stand. There was no clock, no windows, nothing to indicate where you were or what time it was. You ran your hand over your pink throw blanket, carefully pulling the covers off your legs. You were still wearing the clothes you had on last night, minus your shoes. You swung your legs over the side of the bed, your feet meeting the soft rug underneath you. You closed your eyes, your vision swimming as your stomach churned. You knew you should have stopped after the second shot, and now you were starting to regret it. Not only were you hungover, but maybe your senses would have been a little sharper if you hadn't been so drunk last night.

Your attention was turned as you heard the mechanical whirring of a lock, the furthest door opening. You froze, breath stuck in your throat as you looked around for a place to hide. Before you could make up your mind a tall blond man entered the threshold and closed the door behind him, locking eyes with you.

Your mind was spiraling, struggling to understand the scene before you. You swallowed, a pit settling deep in your stomach.

"C-Captain Rogers?"

He started towards you, a glass of water in one hand and a pill bottle in the other. You watched him with wide eyes, unable to look away as he set the water on the bedside table, shaking two little blue pills out of the plastic bottle, holding his palm out to you.

"Take these, it'll help with your hangover."

You shook your head absentmindedly. The sinking feeling in your chest told you he wasn't here to save you.

"It's just aspirin, sweetheart. Take it."

You swallowed, your heart pounding as you took the pills from him. As you popped them in your mouth, he handed you the glass of water to wash them down. Your hands shook as he took the glass from you, blinking as your eyes stung.

"How do you feel, sweetheart?" he asked, sitting on the bed beside you. You forced yourself not to scoot away from him, to stay still as he stared you down. You hated how the pet name rolled off his tongue like you were a kitten who needed coddling. You nodded stiffly. "Use your words, doll."

"I'm alright," you forced out, voice barely above a whisper. "My—um—my head hurts a little."

Steve nodded. "You were pretty drunk when you came home. How much did you have to drink?" His eyebrows were raised expectantly, his lips pulled into a frown.

Perhaps it was out of fear, or the disappointed look he gave you, but you told him, "A couple shots. . . a cocktail."

Steve hummed, the corner of his lips tugging up. "We knew you were a lightweight, but. . . ." You were struggling to think of a time when the Captain would have seen you drink. You haven't seen him since he presented you with your medal at the Olympics and last night at the club was the first time in a while you had drunk more than a glass of wine after dinner. "You could have gotten into some serious trouble last night, sweetheart. You know that, right? If some creep had found you without your friends, who knows what would have happened to you. You could have gotten hurt. . . or worse."

You swallowed past the lump forming in your throat, tears pooling in your eyes. You opened your mouth to speak, closing it when you lost your words. Steve urged you to talk, to speak your mind.

"Have. . . have you been watching me?" Your chest tightened, dreading his response. You had a feeling you knew what he was going to say.

" _We_ have." You felt sick, sudden nausea rising in your stomach. "We had to make sure you stayed safe. We just want to protect you, sweetheart."

You sucked in a quick, shaky breath. You couldn't breathe. Oh god, you couldn't breathe. How long? How long had Captain America been stalking you?

"Where am I?" The words had left your mouth before you realized. Steve was silent for a moment, you were too afraid to look away from him.

"You're home," he said. "That's all that matters." Steve brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, sighing disappointedly when you flinched at his touch. "When I first saw you come onto the ice that day—when I saw you dance, saw you move—I knew you'd be perfect for us." He cupped your cheek gently, directing your gaze to his. "Buck and I, we're going to take care of you from now on. You don't have to be alone anymore."

You were careful, hesitant, as you pulled out of his grip, fiddling with your hands in your lap. "C-Captain Rogers. . . ."

"It's Steve, sweetheart."

You wrung your shirt in your hands, anything to distract you from the pit forming deep in your core.

"O-Okay, Steve. . . . I don't—I don't understand. Don't I get a say in all this?" your voice cracked up at the end. A tear slipped past your lashes as you looked at the carpet below you, sparing him quick glances.

"Trust me, baby, give it time. You just don't know this is what you want. You'll be happy here, I promise."

You shook your head, tears falling freely down your cheeks. "I—I wanna go home, Steve. You—You can't just take me out of my life, people are going to look for me. Please. Please, don't do this."

Steve's hand went to your back and you froze. As his fingers trailed up and down your spine you shot up, running until your back hit the opposing wall.

"Relax, sweetheart," Steve said, standing up slowly, his hands out in front of him. "I'm not going to hurt you."

You choked on a sob, pushing yourself against the wall as if it would keep you further away from him. "Please, just let me go. I won't tell anyone, I promise. Captain Rogers—Steve. Please."

He called out your name softly, almost exasperated. "Take deep breaths, sweetheart. You're gonna make yourself hysterical."

Your chest was tight as you shook, really shook, in fear. In absolute terror. Your stomach churned and for a moment you were sure you were going to be sick. Whether it was from your hangover or the overwhelming fear swallowing you whole, you didn't know. You felt like a fish out of water, trying desperately to suck in air.

You heard the mechanical whirring again, you turned your head as the door open. A man you didn't recognize walked in, eyeing you carefully before closing the heavy door behind him.

"Thought you could use some help," he said, turning to Steve.

"I had it handled," Steve said, almost defensively.

"Who are you?" you asked frantically, looking at the man. He had short dark hair and piercing blue eyes, a glove covering his left hand. You thought he looked familiar, but you couldn't quite place how you knew him.

"You can call me Bucky, doll," he said, smiling at you. Your heart skipped a beat at his voice. It was him. The man that was in your apartment.

"You—" your voice caught in your throat as tears stung your eyes. "You were. . . ."

"Try to breathe, doll, you're safe," Bucky told you, stepping closer to you. You took a hasty step back

"Please, I have a job, I have a career. I love what I do, you can't take that away from me. I'm going to fail my classes, and lose my apartment—rent is due next week and if I don't pay—"

Steve said your name carefully, stepping toward you. You pushed yourself further against the wall.

"Please! Please, Captain Rogers, I—I wanna go home. Please, _just let me go home_."

He was on you before you even realized it. You screamed as Steve took your hands in his, pinning your wrists on either side of your head. He said your name sternly, your mouth snapping shut.

"I need you to calm down for me, sweetheart," he said lowly. "We've already taken care of everything."

You looked up at him, then at Bucky, afraid to speak. "Wh—What do you mean?"

Steve sighed. "I sent an email to your coach. You're on a vacation in Barbados, said you needed a little break. Your rent is paid for the next six months, it would be a little suspicious if you suddenly moved after telling your coach you went to the Caribbean, don't ya think? I figured we could give it some time before we make ourselves public."

You frowned, not understanding. "Wh—What are you talking about?"

"Us, darling," Bucky smiled. "You, me, and Stevie. We're gonna start a family together, all three of us. Stevie and I've wanted it for a long time, we were just missing one thing: you."

A broken whimper escaped your throat. Steve's grip loosened on your wrists.

"I—I don't understand—why me?"

"Because you're perfect," Steve hummed, nuzzling his nose against your neck. Your eyes squeezed shut as his hot breath fanned your neck. "You're perfect for us, sweetheart. So soft, so responsive—" he nibbled at your pulse point, eliciting a yelp from your shaking form.

"And you need someone to take care of you, too," Bucky added, watching Steve nose at your jaw. "We know all about you, princess. How your parents up and left you when you were little, how your aunt shipped you off to boarding school the second she could. How you were taken from her, put in the system before you got a full ride at NYU."

"How do you—"

Steve licked a broad stripe up your neck, making you squeak. "You worked so hard, baby," he hummed. "Perfect GPA in high school while you worked two jobs? Not many people can do that. You're so smart, sweetheart."

A tear slipped past your lashes, catching on Steve's lips as he kissed at the corner of your mouth. You turned your head away, his lips catching your jaw again.

Bucky sighed. "Alright, Steve, that's enough. You're gonna give the poor girl a heart attack."

Steve pouted, nuzzling his nose to your neck. "I can't help it, Buck. She's just too sweet."

When Steve finally released you, you let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding. You were close to breaking down. Steve and Bucky could see the panicked look in your eyes, how your chest rose and fell unsteadily.

"Why don't we show you around, kitten?" Bucky offered, hand reaching out gently. You knew you didn't have a choice. Hesitantly, you peeled yourself off the wall, stepping toward the two larger men. Bucky laced his fingers in with yours, making you stiffen. You let him guide you toward a door.

"This is your bathroom," Steve beamed. "We designed it ourselves, but if there's something you don't like, we can change it."

You gawked at the large, lavish bathroom. The white tiles of the floor were decorated with smaller black squares, the wall a plain white. The vanity matched the flooring with dark wood cabinets and a beautiful oval mirror. There was a large claw-foot tub along the wall that looked big enough to fit three of you, it didn't dawn on you that the two supersoldiers would want to actually join you in a bath. A shower stood across from the tub, the perimeter encased in glass. The only splash of color in the monochromatic room were the pale pink towels hanging from a towel rack.

"It's your favorite color, right?" Steve's hand went to the small of your back as he saw you looking at the fluffy towels.

You nodded softly. It was, and it disturbed you that they knew that.

You noticed a toothbrush was already settled in a black marble cup, along with a large makeup drawer nearly overflowing with various kinds of makeup. You saw several eyeshadow pallets and lipsticks, each looking very expensive. There was a small bottle of foundation you've seen in ads on Instagram, it was supposed to match your skin tone after a short test. You remember taking the test one day, just for fun, but you never bought the product.

"Some of this stuff in here is brands you had," Bucky told you. "Most of it is nicer. We got you new shampoo. It's nicer, sulfate-free, and smells like roses and mint. We think you'll like it."

Despair settled deep in your gut. They had every intention of keeping you here. They bought you shampoo, they replaced your _makeup_.

You walked over to the vanity and picked up a small perfume bottle. It was Chanel, probably more expensive than it should be for such a tiny bottle. You felt wrong just holding it.

"What'dya think?" Bucky asked, squeezing your hand. You forced yourself to swallow the lump in your throat, nodding softly.

"It—It's nice," you croaked.

"You like it?" Steve's eyes lit up as he grinned down at you, reminding you of a kid at Christmas.

"I—I do, it's very nice." You cleared your throat. It was more than nice, it was beautiful. Something straight out of your dream house. When you had money and time and a family.

"Well, the surprise isn't over yet," Bucky grinned. "C'mon, doll, we'll show you your wardrobe."

You followed Bucky out of the bathroom, watching as he bounced on his toes while he stood to the side of the decorative wardrobe.

"Go on, sweetheart," Steve smiled sweetly. "Open it."

You did as you were told, your eyes widening.

Half a dozen dresses hung from wooden hangers, each a different color or pattern. At least six more skirts hung beside the dresses, neighboring an array of blouses and sweaters. Nothing about the clothing was casual. You reached out and grabbed a navy dress that felt so incredibly soft and rough under your fingertips all at the same time. The wardrobe looked like something straight out of a time capsule. These dresses, the skirts—they were clothing a fifties housewife would wear. Certainly not something you would see today.

"There's more over there, sweetheart." Steve pointed to the dresser and you moved, opening the first one on the left.

Your cheeks reddened in embarrassment. The drawer was full of lingerie. Of bras and underwear and _oh God, how did they know your cup size?_

Most of the underwear was modest. Lacy with colors that looked good on you. Almost all of the bras had a matching pair of underwear. You picked up a pair of silky black panties with a floral pattern and your jaw dropped. You reread the tag. Agent Provocateur. You could only imagine why they bought you such expensive lingerie.

Looking through the other drawers, you found a few pairs of pants and thigh high stockings with matching garters. There were some nightgowns neatly folded in one drawer. You closed it softly, close to tears and overwhelmed.

"So you're just gonna keep me down here?" you mumbled, biting your lip as you turned to Steve and Bucky.

"Not forever," Steve told you. "Once we know we can trust you, and you've adapted, we'll move you upstairs with us."

You simply nodded, quickly wiping away a tear that slipped past your lashes.

"Hey, hey, don't cry, princess. C'mere." Bucky pulled you into a hug and you sobbed. He coddled your head and pressed you into his chest, Steve rubbing your back soothingly.

"We know it's hard right now, sweetheart," Steve cooed. "But trust us, you're gonna love it here. We're gonna take such good care of you, I promise."

You cried out, your shoulders shaking as Bucky cupped your face to look up at him, wiping a tear from your cheek.

Steve breathed out a soft 'fuck'. "Jesus, Buck, look at her—she's so pretty when she cries."

The comment sent a shiver down your spine.

"That she is, Stevie." His lips brushed your nose. "Do us a favor, doll, and get cleaned up. Steve and I will be back down later with supper."

You watched as they left your quarters and it was quiet. Like they were never even there. But the panicked tightening in your chest and the lingering sensation on your nose told you they were very, very real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long! honestly, this was just sitting in my drafts completely finished because I thought I already posted it 😅😅😅  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, feel free to add kudos and comment!

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave kudos and comments!


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